Dear Draco
by simeysgirl
Summary: A letter from Harry, to Draco. Angst. Major character death.


**Beta:** wendypops

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to JKR

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><p>Dear Draco,<p>

I don't know what I'm doing. Why am I even writing this? I know I'm not going to send it. I can't send it.

I just need to let you know how I feel. Hermione says that you know full well how I feel, but I need to tell you. Yes, I probably should have done it before, but hindsight is a bitch. And I can't tell you now because, well, you took care of that.

How could I have been so stupid? How did I think you would ever have kept your promises? _I'll never leave you, Harry_, you said. _You're stuck with me for good,_ you promised.

And where are you now? You're not where you should be, that's for sure. You should be here. By my side. Lounging on the sofa with your feet in my lap, demanding a foot-rub while we listen to the wireless. You should be sat at the table in the kitchen while I cook your favourite food. You should be propped up against the pillows in bed, waiting for me to finish work so you can rub away all the aches and pains I've gathered during the day.

But you're not. And I want to hate you for that, but I can't. I still love you. Do you still love me? Of course, you don't. Because you left. You broke your promise.

I remember when we first met up in that pub after the war. Being forced to sit at the same table, people thought they'd get to see a fight. _Go on, Harry, tell__ him to get the fuck out_, they said. _Malfoy, just hit him_, they prompted. They missed out. If there's one thing we hated more than each other, it was others assuming we'd do things. We figured that out that night, and it made us smile evilly and scupper their plans.

Instead of cursing each other, we clinked our glasses together and drank to doing whatever the fuck we wanted. That night we talked more than in the ten years we'd known each other. I found I quite liked your snarky attitude when it wasn't directed at me, and you wouldn't tell me what made you stay, but I figured it out.

I didn't care. I didn't poke and prod you and tell you to fuck off. I just left you alone. And you liked it. You grew to love it. Of course, I didn't leave you alone for long.

I enjoyed it too much, the rapport we had. You didn't give a shit that I'd 'saved you all'. You just wanted to get pissed and forget it had ever happened. I wanted that as well, so we started drinking together more often.

A few drinks too many one night had us falling into bed with each other. We were understandably shocked the following day, but you surprised me more when you didn't run away. I shocked myself when I let you back into bed that next night. And the night after that, and the night after that.

It was easy and it was hard. We clicked but we argued. We argued constantly; do you remember? Who's turn was it to get out of bed to make the tea in the morning. Who had left the dishes in the sink. What film we got to watch. Who got the first shower.

But I loved it. I loved how easy it was to fall into bed with you and have you wrap your arms around me. I loved how you could make me smile with some simple offhand comment. God, I loved _you_. I don't think anyone could love anyone as much as I loved you. That's another thing we argued about. It was silly, really. _I love you_, I'd say. _I love you more_, you'd say. On and on it would go until we fell into bed—or the sofa, the table, the stairs—laughing and kissing and groping.

That's gone, hasn't it? You've taken it away. Bastard. How am I supposed to live without you ranting about the Ministry from your chair, or kissing me goodbye when you leave the house?

I have thought about not living without you, but I can't do it. You'd be so mad at me. Funny isn't it? You left me and I'm still thinking about how you would react to things. I'm told that that feeling will probably always be in the back of my mind. I wish it would go away. I just want to go to sleep and pretend this whole thing never happened.

Not me and you, of course. Never that. Even though you left me here alone, I wouldn't give up those memories for anything. Not the memory of you giving me a blow job under the table at that posh do, simply to cheer me up. Not the memory of our first outing as a couple, when you and I had great fun scandalising the older generation in the pub. Not the other thousands of memories that swirl around in my brain.

I just wish you hadn't left me here alone.

I think about what fun we could still be having. I'd even visit some of those museums and things you wanted to go to see. We could pop to the pub for a couple of pints with our friends at the end of a long day, or on a Sunday afternoon. And the sex! God, I miss the sex. Selfish, I know, but I do. I miss the feel of your arse pulsing around my cock. The feel of your cock pulsing inside of me. The kissing. I never knew how I lived without kissing you before, and I don't know how I'm going to live without it now.

_You'll find someone else._ I've heard that more than once. Insensitive bastards. How could I _ever_ find someone I could even contemplate loving again? It's not possible. You've ruined me. You fixed me and then you ruined me.

You taught me to smile again, and now you've taken my smile away. I hate you for that. I don't hate you. I don't know what I'm saying. I'm sorry. I just want you back.

Please. Please. Please come back. I'm sorry. I want you back.

I wish I had someone to blame for this. I want to blame you, but I know I can't. It wasn't all your fault. I need something to vent my anger on. I need something to take away my pain.

What did you think you were doing, Draco? Your big, proud Malfoy mentality wouldn't let you go to the Healer? I told you. I ranted at you to go and get it checked out. But the Healer said that it wouldn't have mattered anyway. There was too much nerve damage. You were going to go anyway; the infection just _sped it up_. I could blame him, I suppose. But, really, truly, I don't think about that. I don't have time for that.

I just want you back.

Harry xxx


End file.
